


Adventures of NORDA: the one where Arthur goes to a party!

by bauble



Series: NORDA [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 04:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20790797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Written forInception Bingo.   The prompt:genderbend.





	Adventures of NORDA: the one where Arthur goes to a party!

"Those are for the clients," Arthur says when Eames tries to take a water bottle from the mini fridge. "You can drink the tap."

Eames levels at him an injured look. "Am I to bring my own plastic cups as well?"

"Ideally a re-useable water canteen or mug, yes. But we have a bunch of leftover cups from our last Meet 'N Greet, so I'm willing to be a little loose with them. You can take one for today." Arthur reviews the most recent batch of intake forms. A few promising leads, at least.

"You can't be serious." Eames flings himself across one of their newly purchased recliners. "I come into the office everyday—"

"Two times a week," Arthur corrects.

"—I slave away for a salary that is a mere pittance in comparison to what I could be receiving for jobs—"

"Where you are in constant danger, and may not ever see payment if the job goes south."

"—And you won't allow me one of the dozens of water bottles you have on the premises?" Eames is honest to god pouting. "Tap water. Really, Arthur, think of my complexion."

"Do you know how expensive a case of Fiji water is? There's no room in the budget for waste in the next two months. This office is double the rent of our old one, required twenty thousand dollars' worth of renovation, plus we have to pay off the furniture you're currently lounging on. And can you at least put down a towel? We talked about this."

"A towel between my clean clothing and this piece of furniture made for lounging on?" Eames says, though he does deign to move his feet to the floor. "I don't see why we needed this new space anyway. I liked the old one." 

"Because our customer satisfaction surveys were consistently coming back with comments on how the office was like, and I quote, 'journeying into a scary weird post-apocalyptic drug den.'" 

"But isn't that an integral part of the recreational dreamshare experience?" Eames replies. "Escaping grim, nightmarish reality for a world of our design and choosing?"

"Baby, I love you, but no," Arthur says.

* * * * *

Budgeting aside, business has been good. The new offices are in a better location and customer comments indicate that although it still feels like a drug den, it is at least an upscale, classy drug den.

He's hired part-time staff, got a decent website up, and even manages to send out an email newsletter once a month. Ish. 

Despite Eames' complaints about the indignity of holding steady employment like a commoner, he has proven surprisingly reliable in helping to create fantastic dream experiences. He's also a decent salesman when he wants to be; half their clients stare in slack-jawed wonder at Eames upon introduction and melt into stuttering puddles of goo when he opens that gorgeous mouth to speak. Arthur doesn't blame them; he knows the feeling.

Now that they've developed a bit of a reputation, getting new clients is easier, but Arthur still needs to hustle. And sometimes that includes taking on people that he'd really rather not.

* * * * *

"I got someone," Arthur says. "You're not going to like him."

Eames shrugs. "I rarely care enough to dislike anyone, family excluded."

"I know, but he's nouveau riche. You may find your aristocratic atoms repelled by his very presence."

Eames chuckles. "Consider me sufficiently warned."

"Okay." Arthur leans over to give him a quick kiss. "You'll introduce yourself at the beginning of the meeting, but I can do all the talking. You just have to sit there, take notes, and look pretty."

"It is what I do best," Eames agrees.

The client's name is Mark (which both Arthur and Eames can't help but snicker at in private). He's the founder of five companies, each named after some object with all the vowels taken out, like 'DNGL' and 'TRCTR' and 'WZRD'. Four of the five failed, but one sold for millions, and now Mark's "taking a break from the rat race and on a journey of self-discovery." As long as that process involves spending money on recreational (or therapeutic, a new offering!) dreamshare, Arthur's more than happy to be a pit-stop in Mark's quest for enlightenment.

"I went on this two week silent meditation retreat followed by a digital detox and it was so, like, mind-clearing. Really put into perspective what's important and what's not, and how distracted we are on a constant basis," Mark says. His phone buzzes on the table. "Oh hey, I gotta take this."

Mark steps out and Eames drums his fingertips on the table in the slow, steady way that signals he is deeply displeased. "Well," is all Eames says, shortly.

"I warned you," Arthur replies. "He originally wanted to have this meeting in his self-driving Tesla. The only way I could get out of it was saying that I needed my associate with me and three people wouldn't fit in his Model J."

"Is that why I'm here? To cockblock his Tesla joyride?"

"And to be the prettiest." Arthur bends down to kiss Eames' unhappy fingers. There's a twitch upwards at the corner of Eames' mouth, which Arthur considers a win.

Mark returns and Arthur sits back. "Did I tell you guys about the blog I bought?" Mark doesn't wait for them to answer. "Every Friday from now on they're going to publish an article on topics relating to my life. Stuff like my morning rituals, the organic farm I own, and the company that will cryogenically freeze my body after I die."

"That's—awesome," Arthur says, after an expectant pause by Mark. "Congrats."

"Yeah, man, it's crazy." Mark flops into a chair and starts texting again. "In the midst of the whirlwind, you have to try to stay humble, you know?"

Out of the corner of Arthur's eye, he can see Eames clearly restraining a snort of laughter. "Yes, good words to live by." Arthur clears his throat. "Now, about your dream."

"Oh, my assistant will send you all the deets later today. This meeting was about seeing whether you guys are cool or not," Mark says, not looking up. "Can't let just anybody into my mind, am I right?"

"Right," Arthur says, blinking. "Do you have any questions, or…?"

"Yeah, what's up with the silent British dude over there?" Mark jerks his chin at Eames. "Is the sun in here too much for you or something? I know you guys like it rainy and cloudy. Like vampires."

Eames' lips thin, and Arthur scrambles for something diplomatic to say, "He's nursing a hangover, nothing serious. But he's excited to get started on this new project, aren't you?"

Eames forces a smile that goes nowhere near his eyes. "Terribly excited."

"So you can talk." Mark stands up, apparently done with the meeting. "And I bet the ladies love that fucking accent."

Arthur leans forward to grab Mark's hand for a shake. "Good to meet you, Mark, and we'll get started on your dream as soon as we hear from your assistant."

After Mark is gone, Eames says, "You were right. I could feel my will to live waning with every minute I spent in the presence that—creature."

Arthur rubs Eames' shoulders consolingly. "Depending on what he wants from the dream, you might not have to interact with him again at all."

Eames leans into Arthur's embrace. "If I could be so lucky."

* * * * *

Eames is not so lucky.

The dream scenario that Mark wants is basically a video game come to life. In it, he has to leap and dodge through a booby-trapped building, defuse a gigantic bomb, crack a safe, and save the world. Literally.

But of course what action hero movie would be complete without the hot girl as a prize at the end?

"Am I going to have to kiss this pathetic man-child and say to him, with a straight face, 'You're my hero'?" Eames asks. "Because it's starting to sound as though I will."

"Maybe one of his female projections will step up at the end of the dream." Arthur flips through his file on Mark. "Hopefully, not his ex-wife. That was an ugly divorce."

"Can't imagine why," Eames says, dryly.

Unfortunately, they discover that hoping a projection will show up and solve their problems (which has had a 50% success rate in past jobs) is not a viable option in this situation. They discover this on the first trial run they hold with Mark, a dream which is filled with an overwhelming amount of nerdy men (as befits his Silicon Valley home) and women that flee Mark's presence.

"I don't think I've ever observed so many projections see the dreamer, turn on their heel, and walk away," Eames says after they watch it happen repeatedly. "I'd be fascinated under normal circumstances, but am currently preoccupied with my growing dread."

"I'm sorry, baby. I was really hoping you could sit this one out." Arthur says once they're alone at the office again. "After the job is done, let me make it up to you. Whatever you want."

Eames is quiet for a moment. Arthur girds himself for more blowjobs, that Philippe Patek watch Eames has been sighing about, or more activity with the erotic teddy bear they have stored in the back of the closet. It's not that he minds the bear so much--it just tends to lead to chafing in uncomfortable places. But Eames says, "Holiday. I'd like to take a month-long holiday with you after all this business with Mark is done."

"Vacation?" Arthur's mind whizzes at the idea of leaving NORDA for a month, now that they've finally started getting a steady stream of clients. "Wh--"

"Anywhere," Eames pauses, and amends that. "Perhaps not anywhere. There may still be warrants out for my arrest in some locales. But excepting those and countries wherein my relatives might be found, anywhere."

"NORDA—"

"NORDA will survive a holiday," Eames says. "After Mark, we have no immediate client appointments. We can tell any prospective customers that we're booked up until after we return. Our staff can handle the emails and day to day while we're away."

"But. But." Arthur glances around the office, every facet of which he's spent the past three years obsessing over. "We're starting to build momentum."

"And this will be a wonderful opportunity for you to brainstorm some new services and offerings," Eames continues, arms slipping around Arthur's waist. "Weren't you complaining the other evening that you're too busy managing daily operations to step back and think about strategy?"

Arthur narrows his eyes at Eames. "You came prepared for this, didn't you?"

Eames nuzzles Arthur's cheek, kisses him sweetly. "Preparation and opportunity are the twin keys to success, a saying I recall a certain pushy American beating into my skull over the past half-decade."

Arthur leans into Eames' kisses, a little. "How about a weekend?"

"A month," Eames says, firmly, one hand creeping down the back of Arthur's pants. "With work emails and calls restricted to one day a week."

"One—" Arthur's protest is cut off by Eames' deep kisses.

"We can have sex every day on fresh sheets we don't have to change," Eames murmurs seductively. "Sex in a shower with fresh towels we don't have to launder. I could wear that tiny Speedo you like in the pool."

"What about, um—" Arthur's ears redden; he's still shy about asking for one particular thing, which thankfully, Eames already knows.

"Yes, I can hit on you in the hotel bar." Eames smiles. "Lure you back to my room and make you take my cock, no matter what you say."

Arthur shivers and rubs his hardening dick against Eames' hip. "Would you use force if you had to?"

"But of course." Eames' fingers are deft as ever on Arthur's fly. "I'd need to make this mysterious stranger mine."

Arthur moans as Eames wraps a hand around his cock, guides him back towards—

"Not on the recliners!" Arthur yelps, averting disaster at the very last moment. "Or the desk. Or any of the new furniture. Or near the walls—that's a fresh paint job."

Eames takes a step back, exasperated. "Not on the furniture or the walls? Are we to have freestanding sex in the middle of the room touching absolutely nothing?"

"And nothing on the carpet, either," Arthur says. He brings a thumb up to Eames' lower lip, thoughtful. "I do know one place…"

"I see I'm not the only one who prepared," Eames remarks with an eyebrow raised. But he sinks to his knees willingly enough. Later, when Arthur is returning the favor, he thanks his past self for testing the carpet for precisely this purpose before ordering it.

* * * * *

"Do you know what I think would be awesome?" Mark asks after a long day reviewing photos of female celebrities he thinks are hot or not, and whom he would like populating his dreamspace.

"I can say with absolute certainty that I do not," Eames says, sounding weary.

"If you guys got a taste of my lifestyle by coming to the rager I'm throwing at my house tonight." Mark slaps Arthur's shoulder. "You know, so you can make my dream more realistic."

Arthur doesn't know what elements of realism a millionaire's party is supposed to provide, but he does know that Mark is paying them enough to cover the rent for six months. "Yeah, sounds fun," Arthur says with a cheery smile while Eames shoots him a look.

"Baller," Mark says, whipping out his phone. A moment later, Arthur's own cell buzzes. "Had my PA send you the info. Be there or be square, muchachos!"

* * * * *

After Mark's gone, Eames crosses his arms over his chest. "I don't actually have to attend, do I?"

"I'm not going to force you," Arthur says as he packs his things. "But I definitely have to. If we're lucky, it'll be all his millionaire friends in desperate need of escape from their sad, lonely lives. An escape we can provide at an exorbitant fee."

"Services which can only start after our vacation," Eames says, eyes narrowing. "Two months from now at the earliest."

Arthur makes vague, noncommittal noises of agreement as he backs out of the room.

* * * * *

The party consist of a shit ton of socially awkward men standing around in a landscaped backyard. They sip beer nervously, chatting in small groups while some pop star or another performs on a specially constructed stage. Attractive female caterers move throughout with hors d'oeuvres while the guests stammer and avoid eye contact.

The conversations are stilted, and he finds himself being asked repeatedly if he can recreate this video game or that comic book (the answer is always yes, even if he's never heard of the nerdgasm in question). He's also asked highly specific questions about PASIV technology, and to lay out the argument for how it is different than virtual reality (answer: full immersion and customization). Several people try to debate him. One refuses to let Arthur leave the conversation until he literally shuts the bathroom door in his face.

On the bright side, he does pass out a lot of NORDA business cards and pick up some promising leads.

Arthur's preparing to beg off when Mark appears beside him, proffering craft beer from some microbrewery he purchased last year. Mark leads Arthur into some sort of private library, looking back at the exit with yearning. So close to escape.

"I didn't always have this," Mark says, waving an arm around in the air. "The awesome pad, sweet drinks, blah blah. All that came after years of sleepless nights and hard work, you know?"

"I do know," Arthur says, wondering how long he has to stay before he can reasonably excuse himself. Wonders if Eames will still be awake when he gets home, if he'll be up for cuddling and chatting for a bit before they turn in. "Did you have any questions about the dream build or…?"

"Oh, no questions, I'm sure you guys are going to make it kick serious ass." Mark takes a swig of his beer and makes a face. "This tasted better last time I drank it. Batch must have gone off."

"Must be that," Arthur says, wincing after his own truly awful sip.

"So you and that British dude aren't only business partners, right?" Mark says and Arthur blinks; they'd been trying to keep their relationship under wraps in front of clients. "You're bros."

"Ah. Yes. Bros."

"I had a business partner once." Mark takes a long drink. "I thought I could trust him. I thought we were friends. But it turns out that all it takes is a few million for someone to sell you down the river."

A few million is a fair amount of cash. Eames has certainly sold people out for less. "Yeah," Arthur says, not sure what response Mark is looking for. He buries himself in pretending to drink his awful beer.

"You think everyone likes the party?" Mark walks over to the window, peers out at where his guests are still awkwardly milling around. "Did you like the party?"

"It's great," Arthur says, though it sounds painfully unconvincing. This shit reminds him of why he always left the relationship management up to Cobb; the man could smile and squint his way attentively through all the neurotic bullshit clients threw his way. "The music is—I recognized a few songs from the radio."

"Yeah, my PA booked her. Hadn't even heard of her until this past week." Mark shrugs, diffident. "I don't really listen to much new music."

If Cobb were here, he's probably tell some unrelated metaphor or story in order to make some quasi-profound point, leaving the client confused but also vaguely impressed. Eames would ask probing questions, probably about childhood memories or parents or some shit. Arthur just wants to leave.

Arthur glances at his watch and stands. "Well, I should probably get going—"

"Right, yeah, of course." Mark stands, offers his hand out for another shake. "You had fun, right? You liked the party?"

"Sure," Arthur says, wondering how many times he has to repeat himself before Mark hears it. "I had a blast."

* * * * *

Arthur recounts the conversation to Eames when he gets home, pleased to find him awake and reading in bed. Arthur wriggles in, rests his head on Eames' lap.

"He sounds like the loneliest motherfucker in the whole world," Eames says after Arthur's done.

"You think so?" Arthur tilts his head, encouraging Eames to pet his hair more. "There were a lot of people at that party."

"And yet somehow, he was with you instead of his multitude of mates."

"You think he was hitting on me?" Arthur manages to ask with a straight face. Wouldn't be the first client who had.

"I certainly wouldn't blame him for the attempt, but I believe is advances were strictly bro-tonic. He was extending to you a disgusting micro-brewed beer of friendship," Eames says. "Now I feel a mix of pity and revulsion. Rather uniquely unpleasant combination, really."

"Would you sell me out for a few million dollars?" Arthur looks up at Eames, wearing horn-rimmed reading glasses that are always slipping down his nose.

Eames studies Arthur for a moment before saying, "I'd be lying if I said the thought had never crossed my mind."

Arthur tips his head to one side. "What's stopping you?"

"Aside from the fact that you don't currently possess a few million dollars that aren't tied up in NORDA, I've grown to quite enjoy our life together." Eames takes off his glasses. "I don't know what a few more dollars could buy me that would make me happier than what we already have, other than a holiday longer than a month, I suppose. But even that wouldn't be worth much without you there."

Arthur pokes him in the stomach. "You're really gunning for that vacation, huh?"

Eames catches Arthur's fingers, laughing. "And, of course, there's also the fact that I'm madly in love with you."

"Yeah, but." Arthur props his head up on his elbow. "We've both done relationships before. The first year is the fun part. The real test is when you're not feeling lovey anymore and you gotta decide whether to call it quits or keep playing."

Eames runs a thumb over Arthur's cheekbone. "Are you asking for commitment?"

"I'm asking if you're seeing this as a few good years, or something that could go longer than that." Arthur shrugs. "No pressure, no judgment. I want to be able to calibrate my expectations, is all."

Eames says nothing for a minute, choosing his words carefully. "I suppose I've always felt that every romantic endeavor has an expiry date, whether that's at the end of the night or at the end of a year. I don't know if it means I'm up for decades together, but for what it's worth, I haven't felt as though there's an expiry date for me and you."

Arthur sits up to kiss Eames' mouth, jaw bristly with stubble. "Then let's say it's working for now and we'll reconvene at a later date to discuss if it stops working. In the meanwhile, you'll agree to talk to me before pulling any disappear into the night routines."

"Deal," Eames says, smile bright and happy and beautiful.

* * * * *

The job goes surprisingly well. Mark gets to run, jump, and dive through improbable booby-trapped buildings, crack a safe, and defuse a bomb. At the end of it all, Eames appears forging a woman that looks like the lovechild of Lucy Liu and Eva Longoria. She congratulates Mark with a coy smile and a flirtatious hand on his shoulder before the dream comes to an end.

"Was that the awesomest dream ever created or the awesomest dream ever created?" Mark crows once they're topside. "I was pretty badass, right?"

"You cracked that safe in under sixty seconds," Arthur says, which is factually true. He doesn't mention that the safe would have opened for any combination.

"Hey, that girl at the end—she was one of your projections, wasn't she? I think I'd remember someone that looked like her," Mark says. "If she's single, you think you could introduce me to her?"

"Don't know her, I'm afraid," Eames says as he throws out his disposable IV needle and helps Arthur clean up the equipment. "I saw her for thirty seconds at the airport before she boarded. Striking woman, but didn't have the opportunity to chat, unfortunately."

"Too bad," Mark says, and brightens. "Killer dream, though."

"You nailed it," Arthur says. "We're booked up for the next two months, but if you have any friends you think would enjoy our services, we'd be happy to offer the friends and family discount."

"I have a ton of friends who'll totally be down for this." Mark hovers in the doorway, playing nervously with his cell phone. "And I'll have my PA release the last payment, ASAP."

"Great," Arthur says. "Shaniqua can show you out. Unless there's anything else you need?"

"No, um." Mark straightens. "Nothing. I—I'll shoot you an invite to my next party. Maybe I'll see you guys there?"

"Looking forward to it," Eames says with an almost convincing smile, gesturing for Shaniqua to come take Mark away.

"You were right," Arthur says after he's gone. "That was a depressing microbrew of friendship."

"Indeed," Eames replies. "And did I hear correctly that we are booked for the next two months?"

"Surprise! I got us roundtrip tickets to Wales." Arthur bursts into laughter at Eames' horrified expression. "Kidding, kidding. The prospect of spending time with your family makes me want to kill myself, too. I actually got a one way ticket to Bali, booked a week at a resort, and figured we could extend or hop on a flight somewhere else."

"I'm not going to kiss you right now because Shaniqua or one of the other staff are going to come in here in a few minutes to sterilize the PASIV, but." Eames hooks his pinky in Arthur's and squeezes. "Know that you are in for a fantastic ride this evening."

Arthur squeezes back. "Baller."

fin


End file.
